These Walls
by autumnals
Summary: Post Fall story. I'm not sure how to describe it, it has many different aspects from many different characters. Short chapters, I have no idea where i'm going with it.
1. Chapter 1

Hello! I'm Kathleen, and this is my first time writing a serious fic and not just drabbl, though I'm sure a lot of this will be just drabble. I'd love for you to give it a shot!

Takes place three years after the Fall, and of course spoilers. Sherlock does not belong to me.

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><p>221B's wall, usually filled with spraypaint and the iconic black and white walpaper, now sat a pale grey as John rested, staring into the nothingness. It had been nearly three years since Sherlock had jumped. John had quit his job since, living off the small fortune Sherlock had left him. He felt only resentment at the money, and his dead best friend. John's daily routine consisted of getting up at nine, taking a shower, making two cups of coffee, pouring one cup of coffee down the drain, watching telly, going to the supermarket, watching more telly, and going to bed. Sometimes, he would see one of Sherlock's coats in the closet, and think that Sherlock still lived with him. This was when he was happiest, even if the mistake only lasted a fleeting moment.<p>

oOoOoOoOoOo

221B's wall, barren of any decoration or emotion, was a parallel to John. He hadn't been to his therapist in a week and a half, and there had been no food in his fridge for nearing 5 days. The phone kept ringing, but whether it be Molly, Mycroft or Lestrade, John saw no point in picking it up. He knew that they were 'worried about him' and just 'wanted to help', but John more than anyone knew that he had dug himself a deep pit of depression that there was no getting out of. John hadn't talked to anyone but his therapist for almost a month, and now that he stopped seeing her, all human contact was lost. It wasn't until Mrs Hudson got the spare keys to let Lestrade in that John spoke. Lestrade seemed genuinely concerned, but John knew there was nothing anyone could do. All he wanted was his friend back.

'John, it's been a month since we spoke. It's been a month since YOU spoke. Molly and I are scared for you. You look like you're dying.'

It took a while for John to respond, but when he did his voice was low and shaky. 'I am.' Lestrade faltered.

'Wait, do you mean… like… cancer?'

'No, you idiot,' John gave a little chuckle, finding humor in Lestrade's ignorance. 'I haven't moved from this spot in a week. I havent eaten since Mrs Hudson left some cookies at the door two days ago.' He sighed. 'I can't go on like this.'

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><p>Ok a very <em>very<em> short little first chapter, the next one is kinda stupid. (yeah I already have it written bite me) I'd love some reviews, though!


	2. Chapter 2

Whoops, I'm back. I already had this written, I just didn't think it belonged in the beginning chapter. It's p. bad, escpecially the last part, but i'd like you to give it a shot.

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><p>221B's walls, faint shadows cast on them by the outline of Mycroft Holmes, seemed to be neglected, faint dirt marks and scuffs along it. Mycroft was the first to speak. 'John, you can't sit in this apartment forever, and you know it. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted it.' John's eyes narrowed. 'Huh. As if you knew anything about Sherlock. You were enemies with the same mother. And besides, it's what he would have done, and I can do it, too.' John stated indignantly. He knew that Mycroft wouldn't leave until he knew John was better. Mycroft may not be as brilliant as his brother, but he could tell when John was lying about seeing his therapist.<p>

I have to go to the supermarket.' John stated. He knew his stand-in therapist would let him go for something as normal as getting food. Of course, John had no intention of going to the market, much less of getting food. He was probably just going to ride around on the tube for a while. He grabbed his coat and walked out, with Mycroft still on the couch, looking as if he was about to say something.

The bookshop's walls were covered with shelves, and the few breaks in the books were covered with murals and doors. The back door opened to the break room, where Sherlock was sitting. He was always sitting. Without Molly and her bodies, without Mrs Hudson and her pastries, without Lestrade and his cases, and without John, HIS John, there was nothing to do but sit. He was used to just sitting by now. He had been doing it for thirty years. Just because he had a one year break doesn't mean that he can't just sit anymore. He had been sitting for three years now. He had a job at a bookshop under the name of 'Hamish Green.' A voice called out from the front of the store. '

HAMISH! You're needed at the front desk. This bloke spilled coffee on this book and he refuses to pay for it!' That voice belonged to his boss, Ricky, who had the IQ of an illiterate duck. He had no idea why they allowed Ricky to run a bookshop as he was absolute in the fact that Ricky had never read a book in his life. He sighed 'Alright, allright. I'll be rig-' As he turned the corner he stopped dead in his tracks. Lestrade.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The bookstore's walls, painted a mocha color, seemed to make everything blend together. Though he had only seen the face for a second before it turned back into the aisle across from him, he had recognized the eyes instantly. As tired and worn down as they were, they were still Sherlock's. Though there was still one problem.

That wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock was dead. He jumped. John saw the body. Lots of people saw the body. Sherlock's body, covered in blood and missing part of his skull. So why wasn't it now?

'Sh-Hamish? Hamish what?' Lestrade's brain did not seem to want to wrap around the fact that that was Sherlock was in the same shop as him. 'Hamish Green. Out laziest worker! Get back here, ya bum!' Sherlock's thoughts were going at a thousand miles per hour. He could, no, but what if, not a chance, however, maybe then, yes, yes. This might work. Sherlock had to give himself credit. This was probably the stupidest plan he had ever come up with. He temporarily raised the pitch of his voice.

'Yeah, i just have to get something from the break room, one second.' Sherlock ran back, not to the break room, but the storeroom. He rifled through the racks of worker uniforms until he found Criss's, and more importantly, the surgeons mask.

'Ah, what're you wearing?' It took Ricky a moment to recognize 'Hamish', mainly because of what he had gotten from the store room. Sherlock had just walked in wearing Criss's uniform, with a few personal touches added. His attire consisted of flip-flops and skinny jeans, a tanktop and an open short-sleeved blouse, a leather bracelet, and a fedora. Oh, and he was also wearing a surgeons mask and overlarge sunglasses. 'Uhh, yeah man. Sorry about that. I just, like, got the flu yesterday or something, and i didn't want to get them sick.' Sherlock drawled that out in the most obnoxious way he could manage. 'Oh, yeah, heh, and by them i mean the customers, obviously.' All Greg could manage was a dumbfounded look with his mouth slightly opened. You could easily see it was Sherlock, his curly ruffles peeking out. His first thought was to text John. But he couldn't John wouldn't believe him. Mycroft, however would.

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><p>I told you about how bad it is! I warned you dog! I am honestly very sorry for the (currentley) very OOC Sherlock.<p> 


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